


Catch Your Breath (And Maybe Mine While You're at It)

by tamerofdarkstars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AH YES, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Cursed Bludgers, Dementors, Draco Malfoy is a Lil Shit, Fluff, M/M, Marcus Flint has feelings and isn't one hundred percent sure what that means, Marcus Flint is Bad at Charms, References to the gaping plot hole where JKR forgets what year Flint is supposed to be in, a truly ridiculous amount of Quidditch, back at it again with these assholes, loosely set during Prisoner of Azkaban, so are the weasley twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 17:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13082103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamerofdarkstars/pseuds/tamerofdarkstars
Summary: Between the weirdness with the Bludgers, the Dementors that aren't staying put at the school gates, and the fear that drives the breath from his lungs whenever he thinks too long about how terrible he's doing in Charms, Marcus Flint is having a hell of a year.And that's not even mentioning that little skip his heart keeps doing whenever Oliver Wood tosses a grin his way.





	Catch Your Breath (And Maybe Mine While You're at It)

**Author's Note:**

> me: let's write a cutesy little Flint/Wood romcom!  
> me: *writes a 15k word Marcus Flint character study fic instead*  
> me: well alright then
> 
>  
> 
> I'm American and this fic has not been Brit-picked. Any mistakes in slang/vernacular are my bad! 
> 
> Warning: this fic loosely deals with some themes on anxiety and anxiety attacks. Please be aware.

The Bludgers had been acting a bit wonky for years, ever since Potter’d crashed into the school and everyone promptly forgot how to have an actual proper curriculum. Not that Marcus Flint particularly cared about that. What difference did it make to him if he missed a lesson here or there because of Trolls or Dementors or whatever? Long as it didn’t affect Quidditch.

Anyway, the Bludgers must have been cursed or just plain fucked with one too many times, because recently during games they seemed to have minds of their own. They’d change course without Beater assistance more than their usual chaotic patterns, flying haphazardly off-kilter and targeting specific students (some of whom weren’t even playing the game) until everyone was eyeing them warily during practices far more than they’d used to.

Marcus wondered if maybe he should talk to Professor Snape about having the Bludgers checked out for curses. Above him, the sun was bright, the breeze off the lake crisp, cooling the sweat on his brow from the long practice.

It had been a good practice too, even if they had been forced to share the pitch with the Gryffindor team.

Wood was walking a few feet in front of him, his practice uniform soaked with sweat and covered in dirt. His hair was whipped up in a frenzied mess and when he turned his head to say something to Angelina Johnson, Marcus could see that his eyes were as bright as the exhilarated grin on his face.

Ugh. Marcus hated him, by the way. He hated his face. He hated that stupid grin that Wood couldn’t seem to keep off his face after a good game or practice, and he hated the way Wood’s grip on his hand seemed to linger after they’d had the captain’s handshake at the start of a game.

Marcus had made it his own personal goal to score on Wood as many times as humanly possible and then, today, during their forced practice scrimmage, Marcus had made a particularly risky throw towards the leftmost goal hoop that Wood had barely missed grabbing. The Quaffle had rung through the goal with a sharp ding to the groans of the Gryffindors and the cheers of the Slytherins.

Marcus had pulled up on his broom and grinned broadly, pride gripping his chest at the shot.

Wood had pulled up on his broom as well, looking at the goal with a raised eyebrow.

“Nice shot, Flint.”

His voice hadn’t been sarcastic – if anything, Wood had sounded a little impressed.

And Marcus hadn’t sneered the way he had every other time Wood had ever spoken to him because Wood’s voice hadn’t had anything in it but admiration for a good shot. As the two captains met eyes, Marcus had grinned at him brightly and Wood, shockingly enough, had grinned back.

The grin had punched the breath from Marcus’s gut but the game was back on and the Quaffle was whizzing towards the other end of the pitch.

Marcus considered the idea, trailing last in line behind green and red clothed players, all of whom were snarking at each other with just a little less aggravation than usual, that maybe this scrimmage thing might not be that bad of an idea after all. If he and Wood could keep Potter and Malfoy away from each other long enough to play the game, then it might actually benefit both teams.

Not that he’d ever tell Wood that, because fuck knew he didn’t need to give the Gryffindor team any more advantages than they already had.

Speaking of Oliver Wood, who said it was OK for the sun to shine like that down on Wood’s hair? It was disgusting, the way it shone. Probably sweat. Or hair gel. Did Wood gel his hair? Marcus didn’t think so. Wood never smelled like the disgusting gunk that Malfoy caked in his hair every morning.

Lost in thought about hair gel and sunlight, Marcus almost missed the warning shout from behind them. His head snapped up and his body reacted to the familiar whistling noise on pure instinct.

The Bludger slammed into the ground where he’d been standing moments earlier, sending clumps of dirt spraying into the air.

There was a beat of surprised silence before both teams scattered.

“Shit!”

“Bludger, watch out!”

“Outta my way!”

The Bludger peeled itself off the ground, rocketing into the air high over their heads before plummeting back to earth.

A few feet ahead of him, Malfoy shoved Potter hard in the back, sending him sprawling hard onto the cobblestones as the Bludger destroyed the path where Potter’d been standing moments before.

Marcus had a brief beat of _oh, so that’s it_ understanding as Malfoy tried very hard to look like he had no idea what had happened before he was scrambling up and herding his team towards the castle.

At his right, Wood was doing the same thing, shoving Gryffindors ahead of him with wild shouts and hard pointed shoves. Wood glanced at him and their eyes met, just for a second, before Marcus heard the whistling. The Bludger was there, just over Wood’s shoulder, heading for the back of his head, and _shit_.

“Wood, get the fuck down!” Marcus roared. He grabbed the front of Wood’s jersey and yanked, hard.

Wood tumbled forward, crashing into his front and sending the both of them sprawling to the ground.

Cobblestone shattered as the Bludger obliterated the walkway.

Marcus growled, throwing an arm around Wood’s waist and planting his feet, pushing up and rolling them over to put himself between the Bludger and Wood as the Bludger rose up, shallower this time, and hurtled back towards them.

“Wand!” Marcus shouted, but Wood was already moving, his arm worming its way between their bodies to grab his wand from his robes. Wood’s arm came up over Marcus’s shoulder, eyes focused somewhere past Marcus’s head.

“ _Immobilus!_ ” Wood gasped out, wheezing the spell. His eyes were huge and round and very very bright.

Marcus flinched, but nothing happened. No crash, no pain, nothing. He was framed over Oliver Wood, fingers digging painfully into the dirt and broken stone fragments, and Marcus was suddenly aware of several details about their position. Namely, that their faces were very very close. And that Oliver Wood really was as fit as he looked under those robes.

Wait.

He’d just grabbed _Oliver fucking Wood_ by the front of his robes, thrown him on the ground, and straddled him _in front of both their bloody fucking teams Merlin’s fucking arse—_!

Oliver’s hand was fisted in the fabric of his Quidditch robes, fingers curled against his chest.

 _Shit_.

Marcus scrambled off Wood, breaking contact and falling hard on one of his elbows. He looked wildly around for the Bludger.

It was hovering over them, straining against Wood’s _immobilus_ charm.

“Fuck,” Marcus mumbled, staring at it.

“We, uh,” Wood sounded a little bit winded and Marcus dutifully did not look at him. “We should probably get the Bludgers checked out.”

“Right.”

“Might be a bit cursed.”

“Yeah.”

Silence fell. Marcus took stock of himself – a few scrapes and bruises, nothing serious – and then turned to look for his team.

The Gryffindor and Slytherin Quidditch teams were huddled together in a mass of red and green near the doors, but after a quick count of his people, Marcus saw they were all there and looked relatively unharmed. Good. It would be a pain to find a backup player this late in the term.

“You alright?” Wood asked gruffly and Marcus turned back.

“Fine.” Marcus studied Oliver Wood, examining the dirt smeared on his face and robes, at the painful looking scrape on his palm where he must have landed when he fell. “You?” he asked belatedly.

Wood looked taken aback that he’d asked and Marcus was momentarily a strange combination of embarrassed and offended.

“Fine. Thanks, by the way. You probably saved me an evening with Pomfrey.” Oliver Wood shoved himself up onto his haunches, standing up. He leaned down and held out a hand to Marcus.

Marcus stared at the hand for a split second before figuring, fuck it, in for a penny and all that, and reached up and grabbed it.

Wood hauled him up and released him, reaching up and picking a bit of rubble off the shoulder of Marcus’s robes.

Something was wrong with the back of Marcus’s neck. It was far warmer than it should be, even with the sun so high and bright in the sky.

Had Oliver Wood always had so many freckles across his nose?

“Whatever. Don’t want the match next week to be too easy,” Marcus said, realizing the pause had gone on way too long.

Wood snorted. “Like any match against Gryffindor would be easy, Flint.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “You know you’re the best Keeper in the bloody school – it’d be like playing a bunch of first years without you keeping.”

Both of Wood’s eyebrows shot up and Marcus realized suddenly what he’d said.

Oh, shit. Abort.

“Better get inside before your spell breaks,” he grunted, turning and storming back towards the castle.

As soon as he got close, Malfoy, clearly shaken, started ranting about the terrible quality of the equipment at Hogwarts.

“Just wait until my father—”

Marcus grabbed Malfoy by the collar of his robes and hauled him, spluttering, inside the castle with him.

Dimly, behind him, he heard Potter snickering.

Then he heard one of the twins, Merlin knew which one, speak up as Wood approached the group.

“Oliver! Bloody hell, mate, thought you two were gonna start snogging, you were on the ground so long.”

“Piss off,” Wood said cheerfully back, and Marcus nearly tripped over Malfoy’s feet.

Him, snog Oliver Wood?

That was just ridiculous! Bloody fucking stupid, who in the world would want to _kiss—_

Marcus’s imagination began to paint the scene. Oliver was taller than him, so he’d have to lean up, fingers twisted in the front of Oliver’s robes. Oliver would kiss like he played, full steam ahead, all or nothing, and Marcus could practically taste him, could feel their noses brush and the leap of Oliver’s breath in his chest—

“Ow! You’re _hurting_ me, Flint, let me go!”

Fucking fuck on a fucking stick. Marcus released Malfoy, shoving him away.

“Get out of here. Hit the showers. All of you.” Marcus scowled at his team, who looked bedraggled and grumpy. “I’m going to stop by Snape’s office, see if he’s in and can do something about the Bludgers.”

His team grunted at him with varying levels of enthusiasm and tromped off as one towards the dungeons.

The Gryffindor team had peeled away from them, heading up the stairs, and Marcus found himself alone in the corridor.

Right. Good. Time for a proper panic, then.

Marcus put a shaking hand through his sticky, clumpy hair and tried to breathe.

OK. So apparently he’d gone and gotten a bit of a… a _thing_ for Oliver Wood. It wasn’t the end of the world. All he had to do was ignore Wood for the rest of the school year, and then Wood would be graduating and Marcus… well, Marcus might or might not also be graduating. The familiar sick twist of anxiety bubbled up in his gut, clenching his stomach and making him feel ill. He put a hand on the cool castle wall, trying to ground himself.

 _Stop it_ , he told himself angrily. _Don’t be a fucking idiot. You’ll be fine. You’re doing better at your charms and you are going to **fucking** graduate._

Marcus took several deep breaths.

Fuck Snape, he could talk to him in the morning. All Marcus wanted now was a shower and some solitude. He wasn’t even hungry.

Marcus nodded sharply to himself and headed for the dungeons.

He made it all the way to the showers, peeling his robes off and his underclothes, leaving a trail of filthy post-Quidditch clothes behind him, before he noticed some of the scrapes and cuts his robes had hidden.

 _Hope Wood’s not too banged up_ , he thought absently, turning on the water.

It was a full five minutes of blissful hot water later that he realized how sappy the thought was.

He groaned loud enough to echo and shut the water off.

-

Marcus put a lot of effort into avoiding Oliver Wood over the course of the next week. It wasn’t really all that hard, considering they didn’t have a ton of lessons together, but he still went out of his way to avoid the heaviest meal times and to wander into their shared lessons late and be the first to sneak out.

Except on Friday, the day before the first Gryffindor-Slytherin match, he was still scribbling notes at the end of Transfiguration and didn’t notice he was being watched until it was too late.

“Flint? Can I have a word?”

Marcus flinched, glanced up. Wood was standing in front of him, looking sheepish.

It was the first time Marcus had looked him in the face since the Bludger incident a week ago and it was like being back there again, sprawled in the dirt, and feeling Oliver Wood’s body warm against his.

Marcus didn’t realize he was clenching his fist around his quill until the tip snapped against the parchment.

“Shit,” he mumbled, dropping the quill. “Whaddya want, Wood? ‘m trying to catch up on my notes.”

“We uh,” Wood shifted his bag. “Last week, with the Bludger?”

Oh shit. Oh hell oh fuck oh Merlin’s bloody nuts. Did Wood know? Was he going to bring it up? _Here_?

“We left it there. We forgot about it, actually. Or, I forgot about it. It was my spell.”

Oh. Right. They had, hadn’t they?

“Not my problem you forgot, Wood.”

“Hooch read me the riot act about cleaning up. Did you ever get a chance to talk to Snape about getting them checked out before the game tomorrow?”

Marcus frowned. Oops. He’d totally forgotten about it in light of his big squishy feelings revelation.

“Ah, shit,” he grumbled and stood up. He gathered up his things, shoving them all into his bag in a big mess of quills and parchment. “Forgot all about it. Let’s go, then.”

Wood raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

Marcus scowled at him and his stupid eyebrow quirk and the way it made his face look roguishly handsome. It was _unfair_. He couldn’t even talk shop with Wood now without his mind painting him in some sort of sparkly romantic light.

“What, you wanna wait until tomorrow? Risk the game getting canceled?” Marcus smirked. “Afraid of the Slytherin team, Wood?”

Wood scoffed. “In your dreams, Flint.” Then Oliver Wood grinned at him, at _him_ , and shifted his bag higher up his shoulder. A real grin – the kind of grin that Marcus imagined would be aimed his way if they were actual friends.

Were they friends? Did the Bludger incident make them friends?

Wood may be stupidly attractive and good at Quidditch and surprisingly funny when he wasn’t frothing at the mouth about Quidditch plays, but he was still a Gryffindor. Marcus would never be friends with a Gryffindor.

But… if they _were_ friends, hypothetically, what would stop them from maybe being... more than friends?

Marcus’s face betrayed his brain, the corner of his mouth lifting almost involuntarily. Something surprised stuttered across Wood’s face and the other boy blinked.

Horror flooded through him.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Marcus grunted, feeling embarrassment twist the pit of his stomach.

Wood opened his mouth, then shut it again. He shook his head. “Nothing. Should we go, then?”

Marcus hoisted his bag and left the classroom without looking back, heading down the corridor. Wood’s footsteps faltered, then sped up until the Gryffindor was walking shoulder to shoulder with him.

There was an extremely awkward silence for several long seconds as they walked side by side, down the corridor towards the stairs.

“Did...” Wood hesitated, then started again. “Did you see the article about the Harpies last week?”

Marcus absolutely had seen it and he had, in fact, been dying to talk about it since he’d read the article. “That Chaser team is legendary,” he declared and just like that, the awkwardness lifted and they were off. Wood batted his opinions back at him with a lighthearted confidence and Marcus probed at Wood’s words, trying to pull out flaws in his arguments.

When they finally reached the dungeons, both were laughing and Marcus felt lighter than air.

“Seriously!” Wood said, amusement clear in his voice as Marcus shoved open the door to the potions classroom with his shoulder. “You just don’t like it because it involves something other than barreling down the pitch at a billion kilometers an hour.”

Marcus snorted. “Dance your ballet in front of the hoops all you want, Wood, I’m still gonna blast right past you.”

Wood opened his mouth to retort, something sparkling behind his eyes, when a wry voice interrupted him.

“My, my, how nice it is to see Slytherins and Gryffindors… getting along.”

Marcus felt the back of his neck grow warm immediately. Snape was sitting at the desk in the front of the room, a mug of something steaming by his hand as his quill scratched notes on a piece of parchment. There was a stack of parchment left to go through and Marcus realized they’d interrupted Snape grading essays.

Snape was always in his worst moods when he’d been stuck grading all afternoon.

“Quidditch business, Professor,” Wood said quickly, and Marcus chanced a glance at him to find, to his surprise, that Wood looked a bit awkward as well. “Can we have a word?”

Snape examined Marcus, who tried not to look away immediately. It was like Snape could see directly into his brain and was sifting through every guilty late-night fantasy Marcus had ever had. Particularly the recent ones that happened to star a certain Gryffindor Quiddtich captain.

He wondered abruptly if he was standing too close to Wood and stepped away, ignoring the look Wood shot him, and folded his arms.

“How can I assist Gryffindor-Slytherin relations today?”

Merlin. If Snape’s voice were any drier, it would be a desert wind buffeting pyramids in the bloody Sahara.

“It’s the Bludgers, sir,” Wood said. “We’d like them checked for curses.”

A sneer slowly spread across Snape’s face. “You think the Bludgers are cursed, Wood? Sounds like your Beaters aren’t doing their job.”

Wood’s jaw tightened. “They’ve been acting erratically. Sir. My Beaters are just fine.”

“The Bludgers always act erratically, Mr. Wood. It’s what they do. If the Gryffindor Beaters are not up to dealing with them, then perhaps the Gryffindor team should hold try-outs again.”

Wood scowled and Marcus was speaking before he realized he’d drawn breath.

“Wood’s right, sir,” he said, and both Wood and Snape turned their attention to him. Marcus ignored Wood and focused on Snape. “Something’s not right with those things. Someone’s gonna get hurt.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed and Marcus barreled on. “Bludger focused on us,” he motioned between himself and Wood, “last week. Off our brooms. We barely got away.”

Snape frowned deeply.

“It destroyed the walkway near the doors,” Wood added.

Snape stood fluidly and the quill stopped its scratching. “That’s enough. I will speak to Professor McGonagall and we will ensure the match tomorrow will be… fair for all involved parties.”

He swept from the room without a backward glance and Marcus raised an eyebrow. That was… much easier than he’d thought it was going to be.

“He’s going to talk to McGonagall?” Wood sounded incredulous and Marcus couldn’t blame him.

“Talk about Slytherin-Gryffindor relations,” he said without thinking and was pleased when his comment startled a surprised laugh out of Wood.

“Thanks, by the way,” Wood said as they turned to leave the classroom.

Marcus frowned. “For what?”

“For backing me up. Snape never would have listened if I hadn’t had you there too.”

Marcus watched the stones under his shoes as they headed up the stairs, feeling the weight of Wood’s words warm in his chest, and his stupid mouth opened and blurted words without his permission.

“Guess we make a good team.”

The words hung in the air and Marcus’s heartbeat ratcheted up to a hum. But Wood wasn’t making a face or sneering or anything. He was grinning, almost sheepishly.

“You know, Flint, I’m glad we’re friends now.”

And that – that was just uncalled for. How dare he say things like that?

“Friends?”

Wood shrugged. “I guess we have more in common than we realized. And it’s nice to not have you glowering at me like you want to punch me in the face every time we shake hands.”

Marcus was speechless.

Wood’s expression went from satisfied to a little awkward as Marcus continued to be silent. “Unless,” Wood began, hesitating, “we’re not? Friends?”

Words stuck in Marcus’s throat – say something, idiot, don’t fuck this up!

“I mean, I suppose you’re not a total loss,” Marcus grunted out, trying not to sound like a besotted Hufflepuff.

Wood’s answering grin nearly blinded him.

-

The day of the Gryffindor-Slytherin match dawned bright and clear – fantastic flying weather – and Marcus was itching to get on his broom.

He examined his team, standing clustered around him in little groups of green and silver.

Malfoy looked dwarfed by the other players, a scrawny little weasel of a kid and Marcus wondered if he looked like he was going to vomit because he was nervous about the game or if that was just the way his face looked.

Deciding it was worth more than his life to ask, he squared his shoulders.

“Listen up,” he barked and the team stopped shuffling and came to something resembling attention. “It’s a great flying day, but you’ve seen the Gryffindor team. Wood’s put together something that very nearly doesn’t suck – we’ll have a game ahead of us. I need all of you to stay sharp.”

He pointed at Bletchley. “Bletchley, keep your eyes out of the stands and on the damn game. Bole, Derrick, keep those Bludgers away from us and make those idiot Weasleys do some damn work for once in their lives.”

The team nodded, gripping their brooms and rolling their shoulders.

“And Malfoy,” Marcus turned to their smallest player. “The point of the game is to catch the fucking Snitch – not see how close to Potter you can fly without knocking him off his broom.”

Shoots of pale color brightened Malfoy’s cheeks and he scowled hard at Marcus, who ignored him completely.

“Now,” he punched a fist into his open palm, feeling the creak of his leather gloves. “Who’s ready to go out there and win?”

The team roared in approval and with that, the Slytherin team stepped out onto the pitch.

The Gryffindors were already flying in circles, warming up, and despite his lecture about distractions, Marcus’s eyes went instantly to the goalposts, where a blur of red and gold was flying in circles.

“Idiot,” he mumbled, shaking his head, and mounted his broom.

A few laps around the pitch and Madame Hooch was blowing her whistle, summoning the captains to the center.

Marcus pulled up on his broom, hovering in place as Wood flew to meet him. Usually, this would be the point where they’d glare at each other until Hooch made them shake but this time…

Marcus bit down on his lip, breaking skin. The sun was shining down on Wood’s hair, wind-blown and wild, and Wood was grinning unabashedly at him, the pre-game excitement clear in his eyes. Marcus couldn’t help but wonder if he’d taste as bright as he looked.

Oh hell. Marcus had it bad, didn’t he?

“A nice clean game, Mr. Wood, Mr. Flint,” Hooch warned, eyeing them both.

Wood stuck out his hand without prompting, and Marcus leaned over his broom to take it.

“Good luck getting through the Gryffindor defense, Flint,” Wood said, prim and haughty. Then he broke and grinned, wide and silly. Marcus snorted.

“Good luck stopping the Slytherin offense, Wood,” he shot back and Wood laughed, the sound whipping away on the wind almost before Marcus could catch it.

Wood squeezed his hand and they backed apart, Hooch between them.

The seconds before the Quaffle was released stretched between the two teams like taffy.

The whistle blew. The Quaffle soared.

“Go!”

And they were off.

The game flashed by in bits and pieces, Marcus shoving everything out of his mind as he focused on his flying. Get the Quaffle, dodge the Bludgers, avoid the Gryffindors, score on Wood.

Heh. Score on Wood, maybe score _with_ Wood.

Oh, what the fuck, Marcus, get your head in the actual game.

He ducked and dodged between the other players, trying to keep his eyes and ears on his teammates as he chased Angelina Johnson around the pitch.

He ended up with the Quaffle in his hands about six minutes in and broke away from the pack, streaking towards the Gryffindor goalposts.

Marcus fixed his gaze on Oliver Wood, who was poised in front of the middle hoop, watching him just as closely.

_He’s going to feint left – he always does, feint left, then wait for you to go right. So you should go—_

“Flint!”

Bole. Marcus pulled up on his broom hard, fumbling the Quaffle – dropping the Quaffle – and the Bludger whipped by him inches from the front handle of his broom.

Shit. That had been close.

“What the hell, Bole?” Marcus snarled, rocketing forward again as his Beater pulled up next to him.

“Wasn’t me, Flint!” Bole was wild-eyed and flustered. “Wasn’t one of the Weasleys neither! Bloody thing came outta nowhere!”

“Well, keep it the bloody hell away from me!”

Alicia Spinnet had caught the Quaffle from beneath him and was racing away towards the Slytherin goalposts as the crowd roared its approval.

Marcus swore under his breath and tore after her.

The game flashed by in a screaming blur of color and sound. Marcus didn’t find himself back on the Gryffindor end of the pitch until several minutes later, with Slytherin down twenty points and two nail-biting Snitch scares from Potter and Malfoy.

Marcus tucked the Quaffle under his arm and stared Wood down. Wood was grinning fiercely and Marcus was startled to find himself grinning back.

There was a quick exchange of movements – the reading of body language by two people who knew each other’s Quidditch habits better than anyone else – and Marcus threw the Quaffle as hard as he could through the rightmost goalpost.

There was a sharp ding – Wood missed the save by the barest breath – and the green section of the stands exploded into noise.

Marcus pulled up on his broom and pumped his fist in the air in victory. It was a good shot – even more so because he’d scored on Oliver Wood.

Wood huffed a breath, looking disgruntled, before nodding at him in grudging appreciation.

Marcus mock-saluted him and startled Wood into a surprised laugh before he was turning his broom and speeding off towards the other end of the pitch again.

Something warm pulsed in the pit of his stomach and in the back of his mind, Marcus knew he’d be revisiting the grin, the crinkle of Wood’s eyes, later that night after the game.

The whistle was the only warning he got – and later, that’d be all he could remember.

He wouldn’t be able to actually remember the hit, but Bletchley and Derrick told him that the Bludger had come barreling out of the middle of the game – no one could quite remember from which direction – and nailed him in the left shoulder, ricocheting into the side of his head.

Marcus had been knocked clean off his broom and it was one of the Professors – McGonagall or Snape or possibly both – who’d been quick on the draw with their wands and stopped him from splattering all over the grass below.

-

The Hospital Wing was dark and Marcus was brooding. Pomfrey had told him he’d be good to go in the morning but she wanted to keep him overnight due to possible head injuries.

Head injuries. Bah. He was _fine_.

He was more pissed that they’d lost the game than about the Bludger, which Bletchley had told him had been officially decommissioned by Snape after Marcus had been ferried off to the Hospital Wing.

Apparently, Snape had cast _confringo_ and the Bludger had exploded into a billion pieces.

Marcus was pissed they’d lost the game but _furious_ that he’d missed that.

He huffed out loud in the silent Hospital, glaring at the ceiling, unable to stop his thoughts from spinning in circles.

Well, Wood was probably happy. The Gryffindors had won, Potter beating Malfoy to the Snitch yet again. Marcus was going to have to up Malfoy’s training – maybe chase him around the pitch or something to see how fast the kid could actually fly.

He wondered how Wood was training Potter – there was no way the Boy Wonder was actually just naturally that good.

Marcus frowned at the ceiling for a solid thirty seconds before he gave up and admitted to himself that he might be a little less grumpy if Wood were here in person instead of just creeping around the edges of his thoughts.

Ugh. How sappy, to want someone else close by like that. It was too much.

But at least Wood could distract him from the mind-numbing boredom that was the Hospital Wing in the middle of the night.

Marcus wondered briefly if he’d been worried when Marcus had been obliterated by that rogue Bludger. Probably not – too into the game, if Marcus knew anything about Oliver Wood.

And he liked to think he knew a thing or two.

After all, hadn’t it been Wood who’d called them friends?

… Friends. Friends with Oliver bloody Wood.

Ugh, _stop it_ , Marcus.

He forced his mind away from Oliver Wood – he’d missed a day of classes lying around the Hospital Wing. He’d have to go see Flitwick at least tomorrow and get his makeup work.

His stomach gurgled unhappily. That was going to be a bitch to make up – and it wasn’t like he was much good at Charms in the first place.

Marcus’s throat closed and he sucked in a startled breath, squeezing his eyes shut as his heart started to thrum against his rib cage.

Make up the work or he’d slip further behind – slip further behind, and he could kiss graduation goodbye. Not many students got held back a year through Hogwarts, but it had definitely happened, and to students with better marks in their core classes than he’d been getting.

His heartbeat ratcheted up a few more notches.

 _Stop it_ , he thought fiercely. _Worrying’s not gonna do a damn thing. Think about something else._

Right. Like that had ever helped. Just think about something else! Fucking _easy!_

Yeah, right.

Marcus focused on breathing, in and out, in and out, counting slowly under his breath until his mind was a pleasant rhythmic thump of meditative numbers. A cooling balm over the hot angry rush of choppy thought that spun and spun and spun at the base of his brain.

In and out, Flint. In and out.

He let out a long slow hiss of a breath and rolled over on his side, squeezing his eyes shut.

But sleep, like usual, took its sweet time finding him.

-

Marcus was released from the Hospital Wing the next morning and found himself irritated with the world at large.

He stormed his way into the Great Hall well after breakfast had started, flopping down in his usual seat at the Slytherin table and dragging an entire platter of scrambled eggs towards him.

“Flint, you son of a bitch, how you holdin’ up?”

“Fine,” Marcus grunted, scooping eggs onto his plate.

To his credit, he lasted at least a full minute before he glanced at the Gryffindor table.

Oliver Wood was buttering a piece of toast, half in conversation with Angelina Johnson next to him, and Marcus took a moment to just sit and stare at him.

Just a moment. A single, guilty moment. Nothing to get too worked up about.

Except Oliver Wood chose that moment specifically to look up at him.

Shit.

Marcus jerked his gaze back down to his plate and somehow managed to tip over his glass of orange juice at the same time.

He righted his glass and determinedly refused to look up for the remainder of the meal.

At least, until a ripple of whispers forced him to look up, the last of his eggs crammed into one cheek, and blink stupidly up into the face of Oliver Wood himself, who had somehow managed to cross the Great Hall and stand directly in front of his seat at the Slytherin table without Marcus noticing.

Marcus swallowed hard and nearly gagged on the rapidly cooling egg.

“The hell do you want?” he demanded, keenly aware of the hundreds of eyes riveted on the unprecedented Gryffindor-Slytherin mealtime interaction.

Wood appeared to be ignoring the whispers completely. “How’s your head, Flint?” he asked, calm and completely collected.

Marcus couldn’t believe him. “Fine? What do you even care, Wood?”

The Slytherin table snickered around him and Marcus felt a strange sense of awkward embarrassment as Wood raised an eyebrow at him.

“Just wanted to make sure you’d be up to form for the next game, Flint.”

Ah, shit – Wood’s voice had cooled dramatically. Marcus swallowed and abruptly stood, grabbing his bag.

“Oh look,” he said loudly, ignoring the incredulous look Bletchley was throwing him from down the table. “I’m done eating. And walking out of the Great Hall now.”

He stared Wood down, who blinked twice and then grinned.

“What a coincidence,” Oliver Wood said airily, cracking his neck. “I’m going the same way. Guess I’m stuck walking with you, Flint.”

“What a bloody bummer,” Marcus retorted, stepping away from the table and striding off towards the door.

He waited until they were in the corridor and headed for the stairs before he groaned out loud.

“Are you insane? They’re gonna give you so much shit for coming over and talking to me.”

Wood looked positively delighted. “Flint, are you really that concerned about me?”

Marcus scowled sideways at him. Wood had jogged a bit so they were walking shoulder to shoulder, and Marcus was suddenly struck again by how much taller than him Wood was. If he were to try and kiss him, he’d have to go nearly up on his stupid tiptoes to even reach.

… Not that Marcus was _planning_ on kissing him.

Not that he’d be _opposed_ to that, he just…

Wood wouldn’t want to—

“No,” Marcus replied, realizing the silence had gone on a bit too long. Wood’s grin grew wider. “Shut up, Wood, I don’t care.”

“Oh sure, that much is clear,” Wood chuckled, nudging him gently with his shoulder.

Marcus felt the back of his neck grow hot and cursed his pale skin.

They trudged down the hall in silence for a few minutes before Wood cleared his throat. “That hit… er, well, it did look pretty bad. You sure you’re alright?”

Marcus considered the question. His head was just fine – Pomfrey had cleared him for all normal activities – but his stomach was still tied in knots and the lump in his throat that tasted of a graduation he may or may not get to see seemed nearly constant.

“’m fine,” he grunted. The concerned look didn’t fade from Wood’s face and Marcus sighed. “Oliver. I am _fine_.”

They walked for another five or so meters before Marcus realized exactly what he’d said.

A quick look at Wood’s face told him that yes, he had in fact called Wood by his first name out loud and within the other boy’s hearing.

Wood’s eyes were wide, mouth half-open, cheeks bright.

“Uh,” Marcus began but Wood hurriedly cut him off.

“Don’t! Just— it’s fine.”

And then, miraculously, Oliver Wood’s eyes skittered away from him, down the corridor, and Marcus nearly tripped over his own feet because _was that a fucking blush_?

Marcus opened his mouth, then closed it again.

They walked in a heavy silence for another couple of meters.

“So does that mean I can call you Marcus?”

Marcus actually did trip this time, stumbling over a stone in the corridor that seemed to have been put there expressly for him to make an ass of himself.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he wheezed.

Wood looked a little abashed, hunching a bit into his shoulders, and Marcus scowled hard at his feet.

“It is my name,” he said finally, wishing with all his might he’d never even heard of Hogwarts. Durmstrang would have taken him, he was sure of it. “What do I care what the hell you call me?”

Wood beamed at him and Marcus cursed everything that had brought him to this point.

Except not really, because there was a pleasant warmth running through his body and Marcus was pretty sure he was grinning down at his feet as they walked, and really, this wasn’t so bad.

“So,” Wood began again, apparently determined to have a fucking conversation, “did you get Flitwick’s essay done? Since you were in the Hospital Wing and all?”

And there it was – the storm cloud that had been raining weight onto Marcus’s shoulders for the last twenty-four hours. That bloody essay.

“No,” Marcus said shortly, hunching into himself, shoving his hands in his pockets and walking a little faster. His heart thudded in his ears, each beat screaming at him about wasted time, missing work, and the ever-creeping hand of the clock.

“Want to study together for a bit? It’s not due until tomorrow, and I haven’t even got half of it done. Do you have next period free?”

Panic slammed into Marcus’s gut. This thing – this friendship or whatever – with Wood was fragile and had a clear expiration date. No way did Marcus want Wood anywhere near his abysmal Charms work. No one wanted to be friends with someone clearly so beyond incapable he couldn’t even get a feather to levitate.

“Fuck no,” he snarled and stormed off ahead of Wood, speeding up until he was around the corner.

He wasn’t running away, damn it. He was just…

Alright, he was running away.

And he was only a little bit guilty about it.

-

Quidditch practice, to Marcus’s discomfort, was another where Slytherin was forced to share the pitch with the Gryffindors. He’d been so good about avoiding Wood too, after Wood had freaked him out by offering to study Charms together.

Marcus firmly ignored the Gryffindors, running flight drills at the other end of the pitch, for favor of warming his own team up. The morning was crisp and cool, but was going to warm up in no time, and Marcus wanted to get as much practice in as possible before the sun broke the clouds.

That did not include watching Oliver Wood where he perched on his broom, yelling formations at his Chasers.

“Alright, team!” Marcus roared, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Get on your brooms! Warm up, it’s gonna be a long practice today!”

Malfoy raised his hand. Marcus considered ignoring him.

“What is it, Malfoy?”

“Why are we sharing the pitch with the Gryffindors again?”

Marcus scowled at them. “Because I lost an argument with Professor Snape, and this is a good opportunity to spy on our opponents.”

Malfoy opened his mouth and Marcus, already grumpy and with a bit of a headache, couldn’t resist. There was just something satisfying about wiping the smirk off Malfoy’s little pointed face and Marcus Flint was not a perfect person.

“I would think you’d like the opportunity to moon after Potter some more, Malfoy,” Marcus said airily, and grinned sharply as the entire team snickered.

Malfoy turned scarlet and jerked his broom up until he was flying over them, a haughty look spreading over his face.

Marcus clapped his hands together. “Alright, you bunch of Hufflepuffs, get in formation! Let’s do some drills!”

It was Bletchley who flew over as the rest of the team got begrudgingly into formation and leaned over his broom. “Wood’s been watching you for the last five minutes,” Flint’s Keeper said, nearly conspiratorial, and Marcus heroically resisted the urge to facepalm.

“Shut up and get in front of the goal,” Flint growled and Bletchley flashed a rare amused grin before zooming off towards the goalposts.

Practice progressed without incident. It was just as they were winding down, managing to keep to opposite ends of the pitch without either team killing each other for once, when Marcus went to turn his broom around and found himself suddenly flanked by both Weasley twins.

“Flint!” said Fred, or maybe George, with a wide grin.

“How’s it going, Flint?” said George, or maybe Fred.

Flint instantly wanted to be anywhere else. The Seventh floor, messing around with Cadogan’s portrait. The Second floor boy’s lavatories, despite the constant nasty odor. Charms class. Literally, fucking anywhere. “Piss off.”

The twins flashed him identical looks of dismay. “Now that’s not nice! We noticed you were warming up to Gryffindors!” said one of the twins, draping a hand over his forehead dramatically.

The other twin nodded sagely. “After all, you and Wood’re lookin’ cozy, aren’t you?”

“Maybe it’s us, Fred.”

“You know, George, I think you might be right. Maybe Flint’s got something against devilishly handsome, rakish Beaters...”

“Or maybe he’s got something _for_ devilishly handsome, rakish Keepers.”

“Wood _is_ devilishly handsome and quite rakish, isn’t he?”

“Why, I’d certainly say so!”

“I will murder you and everyone you love,” Flint said flatly.

The Weasleys burst into identical peals of delighted laughter and Flint looked desperately up at the sky, wondering how far he’d have to fly to get away from the twins. When had he stopped being intimidating? When? He was almost positive he used to be intimidating. This was unacceptable.

Out there in the distance, as the Weasleys continued to snicker, Marcus suddenly noticed a black speck, winking in and out of focus against the blue of the sky. Marcus focused on that for a few seconds.

It grew a bit larger.

Marcus frowned.

“Hey, idiots. What the hell is that?”

Fred or George squinted at the speck, which was really now more of a blob.

“Dunno,” said one twin, flying a little ways closer to see.

“Bird?” asked the other twin.

“Bloody big bird,” Marcus muttered, squinting against the sun.

It got a bit closer.

A bit closer still.

Then, with a jolt of pure horror, Marcus recognized the shape a split second before Katie Bell screamed at the top of her lungs.

“ _Dementor!_ ” she shrieked, and turned her broom towards the castle.

“Scatter!” Wood roared, and Marcus whirled to count his team. One, two, three, there they went, streaking towards the castle without a glance back, panic in their faces.

It was one thing to joke about the Dementor guards in class, or in the corridors, or over breakfast where they were warm and safe and inside the castle. Nothing could touch them inside Hogwarts. Inside, the Dementors were a punch-line and Sirius Black was the Boogeyman.

It was another thing to have one drifting close, unsettling and steady, its faceless hood staring and blank. Up close and personal, the Dementors were real. Real and pants-shittingly terrifying.

“Go go go!” Marcus yelled, flying up and behind Bletchley, who looked paralyzed with horror, and shoving him in the shoulder to get him flying.

“Wood! Help me get Potter!”

Marcus looked back towards the Gryffindors – Angelina Johnson looked ill, her eyes wide as she struggled to pull a nearly catatonic Harry Potter, drifting aimlessly on his broom, towards the castle with her.

Potter, Flint remembered suddenly, had particularly bad reactions to the Dementors.

Suddenly, it didn’t seem quite so funny now as it had when he’d been snickering with the rest of the Slytherin table at the start of term.

_Harry Potter fainted on the Train!_

The Dementor was creeping closer. Wood didn’t hesitate, flying up and grabbing Potter, hauling him bodily up from where he slumped over his broom handle. Potter’s head lolled down, chin bumping his chest, a broken marionette, and Marcus swallowed, hard.

The four of them were the only ones left on the pitch now – everyone else had scattered and Marcus made a snap decision.

“Leave the broom, Johnson!” he snarled at her, pulling up alongside the Gryffindor cluster and grabbing Potter’s other arm. “I got him! Go!”

Angelina ignored him completely, grabbing the front of Potter’s _Firebolt_ and hauling it with her. It didn’t seem to want to go, difficult to steer with its rider unconscious, and they were slow, the group lumbering through the air.

Air that was chilling rapidly, ice cold and hard to breathe. It stung Marcus’s lungs and the characteristic dread he’d only felt once before seeped into his mind, clenching tight around his heart.

_Gonna fail charms_ _**idiot** _ _stupid_ _**dumb** _ _graduation_ _**not for you** _ _professional Quidditch teams won’t even look at you_ _**stupid** _ _players are smart players pass charms what good are you if you can’t levitate a_ _**feather** _ _come on marcus get your head in the game the game is the feathers everything is made of feathers everything is heavy as stone body heavy gonna fall gonna die gonna—_

“Marcus,” Wood croaked and Marcus struggled, struggled to float up out of the thick black water his brain was drowning in.

To breathe. To think.

“Oliver?” he asked. The scene was getting clearer – when had it gotten blurry? - and he realized they were almost on the ground, Potter a broken doll between the three of them.

Wood looked like he was going to vomit, sick-pale, lips bloodless and pressed tight together.

Angelina was moaning, low under her breath, and Marcus was almost positive she had no idea she was making any noise.

But it was getting easier to think, to force away the heavy dread, and Marcus chanced a glance behind him to see the Dementor floating further away, back off towards the Forbidden Forest.

Not after them at all. Just drifted too close from its post.

Relief, hot and thick, flooded his mind and he wobbled on his broom, light-headed.

 _I thought they were supposed to be stuck outside the castle grounds?_ whispered a voice inside his head. Marcus shoved it away.

“What the hell?’ he rasped and Wood shook his head.

“No clue. What the hell was it doing so close to the school?”

Marcus shook his head. Words were sapping what little energy he had left.

They landed, graceless and stumbling, and Wood sagged as he took Potter’s full dead weight.

“Get Pomfrey,” Wood said and Angelina was off, moving as quickly as she could, Potter’s Firebolt in one hand and her own broom in the other.

Marcus grabbed his broom with one hand and grabbed Potter with the other, pulling him uncomfortably close to allow Wood to steady himself.

“Ready?” he rasped and Wood nodded.

“One, two—”

The boys hoisted Potter between them and started off down the corridor. It was slow going, dragging him between them, and it wasn’t until they’d staggered down the full length of the corridor that Wood snarled under his breath.

“This is bloody _stupid.”_

He straightened and rummaged around in his robes for a moment. His face darkened and he swore loudly.

“My wand is back in my stupid bag.” He looked sideways at Marcus. “You got yours? We can’t get much further without levitating him.”

Levitating?

Marcus’s palms started to sweat and he hoisted Potter roughly.

“I don’t have it,” he grunted. Wood gave him a sidelong look.

“Thought you always carried it with you?”

“Nope. Wrong. Don’t have it.”

Grumbling, Wood hoisted Potter up again, then stopped before they’d taken two steps. “Here, help me get him on my back. It’ll be easier.”

That involved a lot of awkward fumbling on both their parts, but eventually, Marcus got Potter’s heavy unconscious body sort of draped over Wood’s back.

They continued their slow progress down the corridor.

“Feel like I’m gonna be sick,” Wood grunted finally, saying it more to the cobblestones than to Marcus himself. “Those things’re no joke.”

Marcus nodded, only half-listening. His wand weighed heavy in his pocket. Wood was breathing heavily, a sort of rasping wheeze of a breath, and guilt sat heavy in Marcus’s throat. If only he could just _do_ a levitation charm. Why was he so fucking useless?

“Marcus? You look pale. Should we stop for a bit?”

Marcus whirled on him, suddenly outraged. “Me? You’re the one huffing like a dying—” he stopped, chewing on his words. “Just… fuck, just give him to me. I can’t stand listening to you wheeze.”

Wood blinked at him. “Hang on...”

Marcus stepped up into Wood’s space, smelling sharp sweat and Wood’s shampoo, and grabbed Potter by the wrist, intending to haul him bodily off of Wood.

Wood dropped his head forward, forehead thumping quietly against Marcus’s shoulder.

Marcus froze.

“’s fine, Marcus,” Wood mumbled into his shirt. “Just give me a second to catch my breath. I can carry him.”

Marcus was having trouble remembering how to breathe.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he rasped finally, pitching his voice low and quiet. “Let me take him.”

Wood made a small noise and Marcus turned his face, just a bit, and breathed in the scent of Oliver Wood’s hair.

His heart was racing, pounding almost painfully against his ribs, and he could feel the sweat slick on his palms. His hands trembled, just a bit. It was hard to get air into his lungs properly. What was happening to him?

Carefully, achingly slowly, as though he was in some sort of dream, he lifted his arm. His hand stopped just over Oliver’s head, freezing in place. A hairsbreadth of a millimeter and his fingers would be in Wood’s hair.

Marcus had never wanted anything so badly in his entire life.

But… this was Oliver Wood. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, all-star ace, practically guaranteed a spot in the professional leagues after school. Intense, driven, focused… his team adored him. Hell, most of the school adored him.

And Marcus couldn’t levitate a feather.

What on earth would Oliver Wood possibly want with someone like him?

Nothing, Marcus knew.

But he was a selfish bastard. He let his hand fall, brushing Wood’s head, fingers just barely trembling.

“Oi! Wood!”

It was one of the twins, shouting from somewhere down the corridor.

Marcus leaped away so quickly that Wood stumbled forward, surprised by the sudden lack of support.

Marcus reached out, cursing softly, and grabbed him by the shoulder, steadying him. Oliver looked up and they locked eyes, the moment stretching between them. Color had bloomed high on Oliver’s cheeks, making his eyes look bright, and Marcus could feel his entire face burning.

He’d given away the game in that instant, he realized. Oliver would know now the liquid fire that seemed to be pumping through Marcus’s blood every time Oliver so much as tossed a half a grin his way. Idiot. Wasn’t it just like him to lose anything good in his life?

“Oi, Wood! Flint! You two OK? I’ve brought Pomfrey!”

Oliver tore his eyes away. “George! Yeah, we’re fine. That’s great, mate, thanks.”

The Weasley, apparently George, jogged the last few feet to them. “Harry still unconscious?”

“Yeah.” Wood shifted forward and let Potter slide, letting George take some of his weight. Heels clacked sharply on the stone and Madame Pomfrey came fluttering her way towards them.

“Oh, heavens, you boys,” she breathed, reaching them. “Let me have him, that’s a good lad. _Wingardium leviosa.”_

Potter hung suspended in midair like a broken marionette and Wood breathed a sigh of relief, rubbing his back. Marcus looked him up and down, just chancing a quick glance like lightning. Seemed to be in one piece. Good.

When he looked away, he caught George Weasley giving him an odd look and Marcus scowled at him.

“Are you boys alright, then?” Pomfrey asked, giving them each a sharp once over. “You both look a little flushed. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll give you some chocolate, should perk you right up.”

The absolute last thing Marcus wanted was to go sit around the Hospital Wing. “I’m fine,” he said flatly.

At the same time, Oliver was also shaking his head. “Thank you, Madame Pomfrey, but I think we both just need some rest. If things get bad, we’ll be by.”

Pomfrey clucked. “Well. Should be no harm done. Go straight to your rooms, both of you. Don’t even think about going back to the pitch tonight, understood? I’ll have Rolanda check that everything’s tidied up. Go on, get. Up to bed, all of you.”

“Yes ma’am,” Oliver said and Pomfrey headed off down the corridor, levitating Potter as she went.

The three boys stood in the corridor, watching her go, before George Weasley cleared his throat. “You sure you’re alright, then? She’s right, you’re both red as tomatoes.”

Marcus glanced at Wood and was alarmed to see him looking back. He snapped his gaze away.

“None of your concern, Weasley,” he growled, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his Quidditch robes. “I’m out of here. Got homework to do.”

Which he actually did. Unfortunately.

“See you later, then,” Oliver said quietly and Marcus’s stupid traitor heart skipped a beat. He hunched his shoulders, scowling down at his shoes. He could still feel Wood’s soft, sweat-damp hair against his fingers.

“Go get cleaned up, Wood,” he grunted. “You look like hell.”

“Could say the same, Flint.”

Marcus headed off down the corridor without another word, cursing himself with every step. He couldn’t scrub the memory of standing there with Wood’s head on his shoulder, his nose pressed into the side of his face, his fingers in his hair.

Dimly, he heard George say something to Wood, and he quickened his pace until he was around the corner and out of earshot.

Fuck Wood. Fuck Quidditch. Fuck this whole stupid day and this school and his entire life.

-

The next morning dawned gray and dreary, and Marcus stomped his way through his morning lessons like his own personal storm cloud was dumping rain on his head with every passing moment. He snarled at Bole twice during potions until his Beater finally told him to piss right off and shuffled off down the bench to work with Bletchley.

It wasn’t Bole’s fault Marcus kept feeling hair that wasn’t there drift soft beneath his fingers, or catching glimpses of freckles and half-crooked grins out of the corner of his eye that vanished when he tried to look at them dead-on.

But Marcus was gonna take it out on him anyway.

Charms approached the same way it always did – in the form of an ominous weight sitting heavy in Marcus’s gut.

He slunk into the classroom, shoulders hunched, and took a seat in the very back of the room, as far away from Flitwick as he could. Not because he wasn’t going to pay attention – no, he had to. As much as this class weighed on him constantly, hanging around his neck and dragging him towards the floor, if he didn’t pay attention he didn’t stand a chance.

It was the eyes of his classmates he didn’t want on him. If he sat in the back, no one could see him fuck up practice spell after practice spell.

Students filed in as Professor Flitwick balanced precariously on a stack of books, the top of his hat quivering as he counted empty chairs. The chairs around Marcus remained empty. His classmates had learned from experience. Marcus definitively did not give a single flying bloody fuck about it – he’d rather they were as far away from him as possible.

“Alright, settle in, settle in!” squeaked Professor Flitwick, waving the students towards their seats. The Slytherins settled, pulling out books and parchment and quills and just generally shuffling around as Professor Flitwick turned to face the desk behind him. The stack of books he was standing on wobbled slightly and he waved his wand impatiently. The stack snapped back into place. Flitwick bobbled, just a bit, before righting himself with a huff.

“Now. Today, we shall be diving into a bit of delightful history on the Bird-Conjuring Charm. One of my personal favorites! It can be used to create beautiful effects for all occasions. I’ve seen it used many a time to bring particular ambiance to weddings.”

If he was expecting a response to this, he didn’t get much of one. But it didn’t seem to matter to Flitwick, who continued to beam around at all of them. “Now then! The Bird-Conjuring Charm—”

The door to the classroom creaked open.

Oliver Wood looked around, a bit sheepishly, his bag tucked under one arm. Marcus felt his stomach muscles clench and he jerked back in surprise. His elbow hit his textbook, which slid off the desk and hit the floor with an echoing thud.

Heads snapped around to look at him and he ducked under his desk, ears burning, and grabbed his book. What the bloody hell was Wood doing in this class? Was someone out to get him? Seriously?

“Sorry to interrupt, Professor,” Wood said awkwardly, and Flitwick waved his apology away.

“No harm done my boy! Glad you could make up the lesson. Please take a seat – we have only just begun.”

Wood glanced around the room, eyes falling on Marcus and the empty seats around him.

Marcus’s entire body went achingly cold. No. Please. Please not this.

Wood hefted his bag and, ignoring the openly curious stares of the other Slytherins, headed for the back of the room. He dropped his bag into an empty seat and fell seconds later into the chair directly next to Marcus.

Marcus wondered briefly how much trouble he’d get into if he just cursed himself into oblivion on the spot.

Flitwick went on with his lecture, but all Marcus could focus on was Oliver Wood on his left, head bent over his notes, quill scritch-scratching on the parchment. His own quill was slack in his hand, his parchment blank. Hot panic was creeping its way into his throat.

There was a small part of his brain screaming at him to move his hand, write _something,_ write anything Professor Flitwick was saying, but the larger part of his brain was frozen.

The lesson simultaneously seemed to take forever and flash by in an instant. In no time at all, Flitwick was assigning three feet on the Bird-Conjuring Charm as well as practical work due in time for lessons the following week to the groans and grumbles of the class.

Marcus numbly shoved his parchment into his bag. He’d only managed to get a few lines down at most. Maybe he could copy the notes off of Bole later that night in the common room, if his Beater wasn’t still twisted up about Marcus’s foul mood in Potions earlier.

A tap on his shoulder brought him up out of his thoughts and he looked up into Wood’s face.

For a moment, the two boys just looked at each other.

“What?” Marcus grunted. The classroom had cleared out for the most part by this point. Flitwick was busy up front, wrapped up in conversation with a few of the girls, answering questions about the lesson. Marcus shoved the rest of his things haphazardly into his bag.

For a moment, Wood looked uncertain. If Marcus didn’t know better, he’d say Wood looked almost nervous.

“Got a minute?”

Ah, so that was what cold dread felt like when combined with a sudden and ridiculous impulse to say yes immediately.

“Make it fast, Wood, I’ve got places to be.”

Wood shifted awkwardly to his other foot. “Do… d’you maybe want to study? With me?”

Marcus frowned. “Study?”

“Yeah. I just… you know. We could hang out? Kind of?” Wood looked like he’d dearly like to be elsewhere and Marcus… well, Marcus couldn’t quite figure out what was going on.

“You want to study with me,” he said, just to make sure he’d gotten it right.

Wood nodded jerkily. “So? You busy?”

Busy? Yes. He could definitely be busy. He could definitely find something to do, make any excuse, come up with something reasonable so the boy that made his heart race and his cheeks flush and his throat dry up wouldn’t see him be a useless fucking shoelace at Charms.

“I… guess not.”

Or he could just throw all that out the damn window. Sure. That was fine too.

Wood looked momentarily stunned. “Wait, really?”

Marcus scowled at him, embarrassment flaring behind his rib cage. “Did I stutter?”

Wood’s face cracked into a grin and shifted his weight onto his other foot. “Excellent! Uh, tonight? I’ll be in the library at around seven. See you there?”

“Fine.”

“Excellent!” Wood said again, and then grimaced as though he was berating himself for using the word again. “Then... it’s a date.”

A quick flash of a grin and Wood was gone, bag hoisted up on his shoulder, hurrying towards the corridor as Marcus stood rooted to the spot.

A… date?

Oh _fuck_.

-

Surely not. No way had Wood actually meant… you know, an actual _date_ date.

No way.

It was just an expression.

An expression people used.

Marcus stared at himself in the mirror, hands gripping either side of the sink so hard his knuckles were bloodless and his muscles were cramping.

His own face stared back and he cataloged everything he hated about himself in one swift and well-practiced go.

He could just… not go. Nothing was making him go meet up with Wood in the library. Marcus tore his gaze from the mirror and stared down into the sink.

He imagined it – walking into the library and seeing Oliver Wood. Maybe he’d be at a table, already working. Maybe they’d run into each other near the entrance. Wood would grin at him, that same almost nervous grin from the classroom and Marcus’s stomach would clench and swoop in the same free-falling feeling as when he was diving on his broomstick with the wind in his hair.

Marcus let out a shaky breath. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He _wanted_ to go hang out with Wood. Hell, if he was truly honest with himself, he’d wanted to hang out with Wood for a long time.

His fingers twitched on the sink and he groaned out loud, the sound echoing off the stonework.

It wasn’t even as simple as wanting to tear Wood’s clothes off and press him down into the sheets. It was the utter insanity of wanting to just be close to him. Of wanting to see him smile, to hear his opinions about everything from their classes to Quidditch to bloody breakfast. Of wanting to be able to tangle their fingers together and rest his forehead against his shoulder and close his eyes when the world got to be too much.

He didn’t want to just sleep with Wood. He wanted to _sleep_ with Wood. He wanted Oliver Wood’s stupid face to be the last thing he saw before he fell asleep and the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes again in the morning.

It was terrifying.

Marcus peeled his fingers away from the sink, the joints aching, and rubbed his eyes, shoulders slumped.

Whatever Oliver thought was going on here, Marcus suspected he had no idea how deep his feelings truly ran. And he suspected that if Wood knew, if he ever figured it out, that Wood would probably turn tail and run for the hills.

After all, Wood was Wood and Marcus was…

Well. Didn’t bloody matter, did it? Oliver Wood was going to graduate at the end of this year and launch into a star-studded career doing what they both loved and Marcus was probably going to repeat his final year at Hogwarts by himself.

Might as well take what he could get now, while he had the opportunity. Slytherins were, after all, nothing if not opportunistic.

Marcus bent down and grabbed his bag from where it was slouched on the floor, hauling it up and throwing it over his shoulder.

-

The library when he arrived was pretty empty – a few students were studying here or there, the only sounds the muted flip of pages and the occasional murmur and the scratching of quills.

Marcus scanned the room for Wood’s messy head of hair and after a few moments of awkward searching, spotted him off in a corner, head bent as he scribbled away at a piece of parchment.

Marcus headed for the table and paused uncomfortably as Wood continued to scribble, not noticing him. A glance at the parchment told him it was Quidditch plays Wood was sketching out.

He snorted and Wood’s head shot up. “Like that’ll work. You’ve left your left side wide open.”

He dropped his bag onto the floor and sat down across the table from Wood, who was staring down at the page, perplexed.

“Oh, bloody hell.” Wood scowled and shoved the page off to the side. “You’re right. Guess I was a bit distracted.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Too noisy in here for you, Wood?”

Wood opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Something like that.”

There was an incredibly awkward silence.

“So.” Marcus broke first, uneasily. “You said something about homework?”

“Right. Homework.” Wood sheepishly bent below the table, reemerging a few minutes later with his spellbook and a new roll of parchment. “You done the work on the Bird-Conjuring Charm yet?”

Marcus swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. “No.”

“Brilliant. Let’s do it together?”

 _No no no no no no no_.

But Marcus had come to a bit of a decision on his walk from the lavatory over to the library. He’d rip the bandage off in one go. After all, the faster he shoved Wood away, the less it would hurt later. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself. Best to be upfront, right? Give Marcus time to go off and lick his wounds in peace.

Right. Then why did the thought of what was coming make Marcus feel like vomiting?

He curled his fingers into fists, squeezing until the knuckles went bloodless.

“Fine.” Marcus licked his dry lips and took a shaky breath. “Fair warning though...”

He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t.

“I’m… bloody useless at Charms.”

The confession was like stepping off a ledge. Like messing up a complicated move in Quidditch and slipping off his broom. Like free-falling off the astronomy tower and waiting to hit the ground below.

He held his breath, blunt fingernails digging into the soft skin of his palms.

Wood blinked at him and then shrugged one shoulder. “It’s not my best subject either, to be honest. The wand movements are pretty tricky.”

Marcus stared at him, unable to move. That was it? That was all Wood was going to say?

“But...”

Wood glanced up at him. He’d already dipped the tip of his quill into his ink. “But… what?”

Marcus shook his head. This wasn’t right. Wood was supposed to laugh. To make fun of him. To realize what a waste of time Marcus Flint was and pack up and leave. He’d come here to take what he could get – a few moments of Wood’s time before Wood realized that Marcus was not someone he’d want to be friends with. Before Wood realized that he’d gone and fallen stupid in love with him.

“You don’t… you don’t get what I’m saying.” Marcus put both hands flat on the table top, adrenaline pumping to the point where he was almost angry at Wood’s nonchalance. “I am horrible at Charms. Fucking abysmal. The worst. I have to— do you know how much work I pour into that stupid class? And for _nothing_. I’m not—”

He cut himself off.

_I’m not going to graduate if I don’t pass Charms._

He could feel himself shaking, could feel the panic rising in his throat. His breaths were coming shorter. No, no, no, not here, not in the library, not in front of Wood.

But he couldn’t stop. His heartbeat ratcheted and the world closed in around him, humming hot in his ears a high pitched blur of color and sound, fuzzy on the outskirts of his vision.

And he couldn’t fucking _breathe_.

“Marcus? Marcus!”

Wood sounded incredibly far away but Marcus barely noticed. He was focusing on trying to suck air into his starving lungs, on the pounding in his head, on the shaking in his fingers.

A pair of hands landed on his shoulders.

“Marcus, hey. Breathe with me. OK? Breathe with me. In and out. In. Out.”

Marcus latched on to the voice. He gasped, trying to breathe, trying to follow the voice. The hands were warm and the voice was as familiar to him as the breeze in his hair over the Quidditch pitch and slowly, he was able to match his breath to the soft words.

In. Out. In. Out.

His vision started to focus again.

Marcus stared at the table top, at the backs of his hands, at his knees.

Anything but look up into Oliver Wood’s face.

There was a long silence.

“OK?” Wood asked quietly.

Marcus nodded once, sharp and jerky.

“Good.” Wood stood up – Marcus hadn’t even noticed he’d been kneeling next to his chair – and held out his hand. “Come on.”

Marcus didn’t take his hand. “Where are we going?”

“Just… shut up. Out of here.”

Marcus stared at him for a moment before he hauled himself up, ignoring Wood’s proffered hand, and swung his bag up again. He felt sweaty, uncomfortable, achy and nervous. His skin was prickling and he felt inexplicably exhausted, like he’d spent the last ten minutes racing a marathon instead of panicking.

Wood walked ahead of him, leading him out of the library and down the corridor, around the corner and into an empty classroom.

“The hell are we doing here, Wood?” Marcus asked tiredly. At this point, he just wanted to go back to his four poster and climb into bed and bury his head under the blankets and pretend this whole stupid day had never happened.

Wood leaned against the desk, folding his arms, turning those clear eyes on him and studying him. There was a brief silence in which Marcus began to consider his routes of escape. The window was out and the door was sort of behind Wood now with the way they’d positioned themselves.

“Marcus,” Wood said quietly, breaking the silence. “You know there’s nothing wrong with being bad at Charms, right?”

Marcus… had not been expecting that to be Wood’s opener. “What?”

Wood shrugged. “Charms sucks. It’s hard. There’s a lot of super precise wand motions and things that have to be just so or else nothing happens. Or worse, things blow up. Hell, you’ve heard of the absolute shit that that kid Finnigan in Potter’s year does, right? I don’t think there’s been a class yet that Finnigan’s made it through that hasn’t ended with something on fire.”

Marcus scowled at him. “What’s your point?”

Wood sighed, reaching up and dragging his fingers through his hair, making it stick up funny. Marcus ruthlessly squashed the desire to reach up and smooth it back into place. “My point,” Wood said, “is that I’m really bad at History of Magic.”

Marcus wrinkled his brow. His bag was cutting into his shoulder and he dropped it onto the ground, letting it slump there sadly on the cobblestones.

“I’m really really bad at it,” Wood continued. He shrugged a bit awkwardly. “I can’t remember the names. I pour almost as much time into that stupid class as I do Quidditch. Which is sort of saying something. I mean, who needs to know which seventeenth century witch pioneered the trade deal between goblins and wizards for the rights to mine in the hidden caves in Hungary?”

He shook his head sharply. “But that’s… beside the point. My point is… hm. Well, my point.” He looked steadily up at Marcus, jaw set stubbornly. “I’m not trying to say just don’t be anxious about something like that or to get over it. I’m just trying to say… that I understand. I get it. And it’s alright. If you, uh, ever want to talk to me about it. If it gets too much. Or something.”

Marcus’s heart rabbited against his chest.

Wood must have taken his stunned silence as something bad because he quickly continued to babble. “Well, I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. You’ve never done anything you didn’t want to. Not that I noticed. Er, well, I did, but that’s because we’re… friends. Right? We’re friends. And, uh—”

Something inside Marcus snapped. Oliver Wood wouldn’t shut the hell up and Marcus felt warm from his fingertips to his toes, Wood’s words spinning around and around them. So with a strangled growl, Marcus stepped forward and grabbed Wood’s head, holding it between both hands and forcing him to look at him.

Wood’s words halted abruptly, the pressure on his cheeks puckering his lips just a bit. He blinked big and round at Marcus and well, Marcus was so totally and completely fucked at this point that there was nothing else for it.

“Shut _up_ ,” Marcus growled. “You fuckin’ idiot perfect _moron_.”

“Wha?” Oliver said through his slightly squashed lips but that was as far as Marcus let him get before he dragged Wood close, far more gently than he’d set out to do at first, and threw all caution to the wind and kissed him.

For a split second it was… nothing. Marcus’s eyes were squeezed shut so tightly they almost hurt, and Wood was frozen in place, his cheeks soft and his facial hair rough beneath Marcus’s fingers. Marcus jerked his head back, breaking the kiss almost immediately, eyes snapping open and panic flooding every vein in his body.

“Shit,” he rasped and released Wood, stumbling backwards. “Shit, I-- I didn’t mean to do that.”

Wood stared at him. There was a flush ruddy red high in his cheeks and he looked completely dumbstruck, as though Marcus could have knocked him over just by prodding him in the chest.

“Shit,” Marcus said again. His heart thrummed hard against his sternum, painful, and his arms felt almost numb.

“Flint--” Wood said, then coughed awkwardly. His voice had been strangely strangled and the rasp went straight to the pit of Marcus’s stomach.

“Shut up,” Marcus said wildly. He stepped backwards and bumped into a desk. “Don’t-- don’t say a word.”

“Marcus,” Wood said, and this time his voice was firmer. “Marcus, just listen to me--”

But the absolute last thing Flint wanted to hear was Wood kindly letting him down. He shook his head, fumbling for his bag and heading for the exit.

Wood launched himself bodily into Marcus, like some sort of drunken stumble. Marcus hadn’t been expecting it and they both went tumbling gracelessly to the floor, limbs tangled together and the wind thumping out of them.

“Wait,” coughed Wood. He was straddling Marcus’s middle, not quite sitting on his lap, all coiled Quidditch muscle, leaning over him and breathing hard. His fingers were curled into the front of Marcus’s robes and Marcus wasn’t quite sure he hadn’t been knocked unconscious. He had to be dreaming this, right?

“What the fuck,” Marcus said, hoarse, but Wood ignored him.

“Listen to me,” Oliver Wood said firmly. “You idiot.”

“Listening, Wood. Make it good.”

The words just spilled out. Marcus felt like he’d lost control of the situation a long time ago.

Wood hesitated. His fingers tightened in Marcus’s robes. “Want to get dinner with me?”

Marcus stared up at him. Wood had sucked his lower lip between his teeth, biting down hard on it, clearly nervous. That fact stuck in Marcus’s mind like a neon-glowing sign. Oliver Wood, nervous about something he, Marcus Flint, might say or do.

“Like...” Marcus said slowly. “Dinner dinner?”

Wood shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe… Hogsmeade? Next time there’s a free weekend?”

Hogsmeade with Oliver Wood. There was no way this was real.

But something in Wood’s face stopped Marcus from opening his mouth and letting something bitingly sarcastic spill out. Instead, as though it had a mind of its own, Marcus’s hand floated up and carefully, gently, cupped Wood’s cheek. His fingers felt rough against Wood’s skin and he was startled and strangely proud to see Wood’s eyelids flutter at the contact.

He flexed his fingers on Wood’s jaw. Wood’s head dipped, following the gentle tug downwards and Marcus tilted his chin up and then they were kissing.

Time sped up. Minutes bled into each other without either boy noticing – all Marcus could focus on was the soft insistent slide of lips against his. Wood’s fingers fluttered up and cupped his jaw back and Marcus made a soft noise that couldn’t possibly have come from him. It was too sweet, too… too much. Wood would know. Wood would…

Wood didn’t do anything except continue to kiss him. His thumb swept along Marcus’s jawbone and Marcus wanted to melt into the floor.

An eternity later and they broke for air – gasping, breath mingling together. Wood’s eyes were big and wide and an unbelieving grin broke across his face. Marcus wanted to yank his stupid face back down and continue to kiss him. He settled for letting out a long hiss of a breath. Something on his face made Wood grin harder and Marcus felt himself flush.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… wanted to do that for _ages_.”

Marcus was flummoxed. “Are you serious?”

Wood smirked at him, suddenly the confident Keeper with that lazy grin and that passion he never could quite keep contained. Marcus felt his heart do something all together too squishy and soft and his fingers flexed on Wood’s hip. How they’d gotten there, Marcus couldn’t quite tell. He couldn’t remember putting his hands there.

He licked his lips, tasting Wood.

“You… er, that is, you seemed not to hate it.” Wood’s smirk faded, just a bit, and Marcus’s dumb stupid idiot mouth opened immediately without his permission.

“You kidding? Been dreaming about this specifically right here.”

Wood’s mouth fell open and surprise and delight etched themselves across his face. Marcus groaned, letting his head fall back.

“Fuck. You’re never gonna let me forget that, are you?”

“Not if I can help it,” Wood said immediately, a wide grin on his face. The grin faded into something softer and Wood cupped his face again, dragging this thumb along his jawbone. “But… I was serious. I’d like dinner. Or whatever you’re comfortable with. If that’s… something you’re interested in.”

Marcus studied him. Wood looked earnest, hand still on Marcus’s face.

 _Fuck it_ , Marcus thought. This was everything he’d been dreaming of, being offered to him here and now. It might crash and burn and implode in a week when Wood realized what a fucking mistake he was making but until then, Marcus was going to grab on with both hands and hold as tight as he could. He was a Slytherin, damn it, and Slytherins took their opportunities when they were presented.

“Hell yes,” Marcus said. He’d meant it to sound confident, cocky, devil-may-care, but it came out embarrassingly soft and hushed. He reached up and put a hand over Wood’s on his cheek. “Your Gryffindor friends are going to think you’ve gone completely mental, you know that right?”

“They can piss right off,” Wood said immediately. Then he grinned. “Although Slytherin isn’t going to be impressed either.”

Marcus snorted. “As though I give a damn about them.”

They spend a few seconds just grinning stupidly at each other. Then Marcus gave him a little push and they disentangled themselves from each other, sitting on the cold stone floor of the classroom.

“Don’t think this means I’m gonna go easy on you in Quidditch,” Marcus said. He couldn’t stop looking at Wood, couldn’t stop tracing his features with his eyes, trying to memorize each and every freckle, every curve, every tick and leap of muscle beneath skin.

Oliver laughed. “I’d be horrifically insulted if you did.”

Wood pushed himself up off the floor, dusted off his robes and then held out his hand. Marcus stared at it for a moment, then reached up and took it.

Wood pulled him up and they stood for a moment, hands clasped between them. Marcus licked his lips, still feeling a bit nervous.

“So when’s our next free weekend?” he asked and Wood’s face cracked into a wide grin.

“Hopefully it’s soon as bloody possible,” he replied and Marcus squeezed his hand.

Ugh. Had he always been this sappy? Or was it only when Oliver Wood was involved?

“We could always sneak out,” he offered and wasn’t surprised when Wood rolled his eyes. There was a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth and Marcus watched Wood force it into something resembling seriousness.

“We have Quidditch practice,” Wood said primly, then broke into a silly grin. “Gotta keep up if you have a chance at beating Gryffindor.”

Marcus scoffed. “Now you’re just being stupid.”

But he could feel himself grinning too, big and wide and unabashed, and for the first time a tiny thought wiggled its way into the forefront of his brain.

 _This could work_ , the thought whispered. _This could really really work_.

-

The day had dawned crystal clear, the sky a brilliant and fierce blue. Marcus took a deep breath of the fresh air, feeling his lungs expand and his mind whirl with the hyped up adrenaline that pumped through his veins before each and every Quidditch match. He could hear Lee Jordan roaring into the microphone, announcing the line ups and greeting the crowd and felt his blood sing.

Merlin’s bloody arse, but he fucking loved Quidditch.

The crowd roared and stomped their feet and he and the rest of his team mounted their brooms. A beat later and they were out in the sunlight, soaring above the stadium in streaks of green, looping easy practice warm up loops.

On the other side of the stadium, Marcus could see flashes of red and gold as the Gryffindor team warmed up. He tossed a single look towards the goalposts and caught sight of Oliver Wood doing a tight drill, shifting from side to side to side in front of the posts. He bit back the grin that threatened and refocused his attention on his own drills.

In no time at all, Madame Hooch was blowing the whistle and the teams were gliding into formation, surrounding each other, circling up.

Hooch began the same familiar lecture on playing clean – Marcus could have recited it for her at this point – but Marcus’s eyes were on Wood. Oliver Wood faced him as the opposing captain, looking unfairly good in the afternoon sunlight. He was trying to look serious but not even his usual focus could stop the tiny grin that was crawling across his face.

The week had sped by and for Marcus it had been a blur of stolen kisses and laughter in darkened corridor corners, of feeling lighter than he had in weeks, of that delirious drunken happiness that Marcus assumed must come with new relationships. As sappy and ridiculous as it sounded, Marcus Flint was happy. Oliver Wood made him happy.

“Captains! Shake.”

Marcus flew closer, meeting Wood in the middle, and reached out and clasped his boyfriend’s hand.

Boyfriend. Merlin, what was the world coming to?

The thought faded almost before he’d finished it, replaced by a flash of memory of Oliver’s fingers closing around his wrist, guiding his hand in a complicated little wand flick. He still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of that particular charm, but it was a lot nicer to end those tutoring sessions with rucked up clothes and lips pink from the extra attention.

Charms still weighed on Marcus’s chest like an anvil, crushing the air from his lungs, but that was something he was working on. Something he was living with. And while Wood wasn’t a magic cure-all for panic attacks, it sure as hell was nice to have someone to curl up next to when things got tough.

The thought warmed Marcus even more than the shining afternoon sun and he made a snap decision. He flew just a hair closer and tugged on Oliver’s hand, still clasped in his own to shake, yanking him forward on his broom. Oliver fell forward easily, his other hand bracing himself on his broom, and Marcus barely had time to wonder if Oliver had known what he’d been thinking before they were kissing, right there in front of their teams and the school and the professors and the entire bloody world.

A hoot flew up from the crowd and Madame Hooch blew her whistle. Marcus and Oliver broke apart, staring at each other for a second, before bursting out laughing.

Lee Jordan was shouting something into the microphone but Marcus couldn’t even hear him over the brightness of Oliver Wood’s smile.

“Ready to lose, Wood?” he challenged.

“Just promise not to keep me up tonight crying after you lose.”

Marcus laughed. “Oh, I think I can come up with other things to keep you up tonight, Oliver.”

Wood’s cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink before Madame Hooch blew her whistle again.

“Oi! Will you two flirt after the game?”

Marcus looked up to see George Weasley, or maybe Fred, leaning over his broom and grinning down at them.

“Yeah!” Fred, or maybe George, flew up next to his brother. “The rest of us have a game to play!”

Marcus flicked them the bird without missing a beat, and the twins burst into identical peals of laughter.

Madame Hooch blew her whistle again. “Places! My word! Can we please start this game already?”

Wood shot Marcus a conspiratorial grin and flew towards the goalposts. Marcus watched him go, eyes on the back of his head, the slope of his neck to his back, the curve of his spine down towards his broom.

The whistle blew and the Quaffle was released and Marcus’s attention snapped back to the game, to the blur of players and the wind in his hair and the comforting weight of the Quaffle tucked underneath his arm.

He got possession early and zipped towards the goalposts, laser focused on his mission.

He feinted right, ducking left at the last moment and then instead of aiming for the leftmost hoop, sent the Quaffle rocketing through the center hoop with a sharp ding.

He pulled up on his broom and tossed Wood a grin. Wood mock-scowled at him, hunching down over his broom and focusing back on the play.

Marcus put his head down and rocketed back towards the other end of the pitch, his grin fierce and proud.

 _This could work_ , he thought again. _This might actually work._

  


**Author's Note:**

> From the HP Wiki:
> 
> "Flint was stated to be a sixth year in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, yet he was still at the school in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (two years after his debut). J. K. Rowling explained this by saying that he had to repeat his last year.This explanation did not deter some fans from noticing other consistency errors with Flint's schooling years. In later editions of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, however, Flint is stated to be a fifth year, presumably to clear confusion."


End file.
